


The Case of the Missing Will

by Lizzy0305



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Multi, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzy0305/pseuds/Lizzy0305
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and his dear Dr. Watson have to travel far away from London to find the missing will of a lawyer, who recently committed suicide. During the funeral Sherlock finds something that changes the whole direction of the investigation. Meanwhile, John goes through his own personal crisis as he slowly realizes he feels more for Sherlock than friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everyone can dance

**Author's Note:**

> I have to say, I've never ever in my life written a crime story. This is the first and I'm really sorry if you find it boring. You can take it out on my wall. It had it coming anyway.  
> This, next to being a crime story, is also typical John/Sherlock story, so expect slash (explicit man on man action) in the later chapters. You were warned.  
> This is a kind of prologue, about John and Sherlock's relationship. I will get to the missing will only in the next chapter.  
> Oh and (as my stories usually) this will be stuffed with Benedict Cumberbutch and/or Martin Freeman innuendoes, so don't be surprised if someone is named Ben, Martin, Stephen Ezard, or John suddenly finds a hedgehog. :)
> 
> Chinese translation of The Case of the Missing Will by Polar Bear can be found at http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=78241

It was a cold, rainy Monday. Everyone hates Mondays and this one really deserved it. The weather changed its mind from hour to hour. When it was not raining, freezing wind was sweeping over the dirty streets, forcing people to stay at home. As an umbrella was impossible to use, when someone was brave enough to venture coming out from their warm house, they had two options. Either they could wear a cap taking the chance that the first hard gust of wind would snatch it from their head or leave it at home and go out with bare head, risking frostbitten ears. I chose the second option.  
Walking home from the grocery store I felt, actually felt my ears and fingers chill to the bone. I was stupid, I should have picked up at least gloves but I thought the weather was a bit better since I was in London, not in the Arctic. Clearly, I was wrong. While pacing on the empty streets I could only think of the warm fireplace, which was waiting for me at home, and the tea Sherlock should make me. Although I was quite convinced he would forget about it, I was hoping he didn’t.  
I rushed through the front door and ran up to the room where Sherlock was waiting for his coffee. When I entered, he was lying on the sofa, eyes closed, not even moving a bit. He wasn’t sleeping, I was sure.  
“I’m back.”  
“You’ve stated the obvious. Again.” He mumbled. He was still in a bad mood. Great.  
Sherlock hadn’t had a case for a week. For a whole week. Seven days. You cannot imagine what those seven days were like for me. He was either shouting at me or pouting for some unknown reason when I came back from Sarah’s, or just staring at me, without saying a damn word for hours. HOURS! I tried to help him, I did my best, I was understanding, nice and tolerant but this man drove me crazy sometimes. He played his violin at three in the morning, it sounded like someone was torturing a cat but I didn’t say a word. Not even one tiny word.   
But this morning he woke me up, telling me that I had to get out of bed and that it was something important and I had to hurry. When I came down he was sitting in the chair. I looked at him, questioningly, asking what the problem was. “Coffee.” He said. “Say it again.” I was still nice, patient. “We don’t have coffee. I need coffee. Now,” was his reply. Then I got a bit mad. I shouted at him. Said some awful things to him, too. When I stopped yelling, I turned around and stormed out of the room. I wanted to run away. Somewhere, anywhere. As I hit the bottom of the stairs, I heard his voice. He was standing at the door, looking down at me. “Bring me coffee...please.” I swear it sounded like an apology. The way he said it, his tone... Like a bloody apology. I took a deep breath saying, “Then make me tea,” then stepped out to the freezing wind.  
“Where is my coffee?” He asked, opening his eyes.  
“Where is my tea?”  
His eyes narrowed for a second, he looked at me observing. A civilian would break under that stare; fortunately, I wasn’t one of them. I stared back.  
“On the cupboard. Still hot. Coffee?”  
I tossed him his caffeine supply, although I didn’t think he needed to be more active. Stepping to the cupboard I was surprised to see that he really had made tea for me. I sat down in my favorite chair and tasted it. It was hot and sweet and delicious. It warmed me from the bottom to the top.  
Grabbing my mug I leaned back and closed my eyes. I was listening to Sherlock as he prepared his coffee, to the little noises he made. A few minutes later the fresh smell of hot coffee spread through the room. Walking behind me Sherlock moaned lightly as he took the first gulp.  
He sat on the couch, wrapping a blanket around himself, and looked at me. I was aware that he was staring but I tried to feign disinterest. I tried to think of something else.  
On the telly the newsman was talking about a ball, which would be held by national dancers.   
I thought of Sarah and about the Saturday night we would spend together at that ball. It was a charity event, Sarah had asked me to go, and as I wanted to be with her, I said yes. Thinking about it now I realized it was a bad idea. At a ball like that there was one thing your girlfriend always wanted you to do: dance. And I could not dance. At all.  
I didn’t know what to do. Tell Sarah that I couldn’t dance or lie, creating an excuse which would save me?  
“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked from the other side of the room. Maybe the concern was showing on my face.  
“Nothing...” I smiled. No way I’m telling this to him. “The tea is really great. Thank you for...”  
“You can't dance? Everyone can dance.” He interrupted me, surprise in his voice.  
“How...!? Who the hell said anything to you about dancing?” He was reading in my mind. He had to.  
“You.”  
“No, I did not.”  
“Yesterday you were speaking with Sarah on the phone. You said that you were sorry that the two of you couldn’t meet until the ball but that you were looking forward to the event. I assume you were talking about this ball,” he pointed at the telly where the reporter was talking now about the same event held last year. “Because there are not too many balls organized nowadays in London. When the newsman was talking about the dancers, your eyebrows frowned and you started rubbing your forehead with three fingers. You obviously want to go to the ball, your voice was honest yesterday, you are too kind and too bad liar to fake that voice. But you are worried about something. Maybe you are concerned over your appearance. Afraid it won't live up to Sarah’s expectations or those of the others at the party. But you are a strong, brave, neat ex-soldier, so your looks are nothing to worry about. Nor your actions. As a military man you know how to act properly either in a fight or at a party. So, something else. What do people doing during these events? They talk, eat, drink...and dance. Speaking with Sarah is not a problem for you, and you eat and drink in a cultural way, so dance it is. You can't be afraid that Sarah can’t dance because if she couldn’t dance she wouldn’t ask you to go there, so you are worried because you can’t dance. Which is stupid because everyone can dance.”  
I was speechless. As I listened to him, my mouth fell open, my eyes going wide. His words echoed in my mind and I just stared at him for minutes.  
“First of all, not everyone can dance. Secondly... damn, Sherlock, you are amazing.”  
As always, my compliment astounded him, I knew he was flattered by it.  
“It... was obvious.”  
“Yes...of course. Talking with Sarah on the phone about a ball and the fact that I touched my forehead with exactly three fingers clearly means that I can't dance. Yes Sherlock, it really is an obvious guess.”  
“It wasn’t a guess, it was deduction. And it’s true, right?”  
“Yes.” I replied reluctantly.  
“As I said, stupid. Everyone can dance.”  
“Well, believe me, I can't.” I swallowed one more gulp of the hot tee. This was a conversation I really didn’t want to continue.  
Sherlock examined me for a while then he looked at his watch.  
“My watch is broken.” With his fingernail, he hit the glass lightly a few times.  
“What?”  
“It’s says it’s Monday, but it’s only Sunday...”  
“Sherlock...” He kept hitting the glass. “Sherlock, it is Monday.”  
He gave me an annoyed look. “No, John it’s Sunday. Yesterday was Saturday and Monday will only be tomorrow.”  
Smiling, I stood up from the chair. Picking up today’s newspaper from the cupboard, I walked over to him. When I held up the paper, he looked up at me.  
“What?” He asked.  
“The news. Read the date.”  
He took it and looked at the front page of The Times.  
“It says Monday...” He was astonished and a bit angry. Well, well, well, sometimes even the greatest can be wrong. “So yesterday was Sunday. Then when was Saturday?” His gaze wandered around the room, maybe searching for any sign of Saturday.  
“You remember your experiment with the eggs, ham and some weird green stuff? That was Saturday.”  
“That wasn’t an experiment, it was breakfast!” His voice was irritated and his eyes narrowed when he stared at me.  
“Oh, well...” If he had eaten that thing, it would certainly explain why he didn’t remember for the day.  
“Friday?”  
“You almost burned up the kitchen. When I came home everything was wet so I assume you played the firefighter as well, not just the fire-starter.”  
Laughing he nodded. “Yeah, that was fun... I remember Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday but what happened on Thursday?  
“I don’t know what you were doing...”  
“You weren’t home?”  
“No, I was with Sarah the whole day. Came home about nine.” Then sat down here until I was fed up with Sherlock’s examining look and annoyed pouting.  
“Oh...that’s the day I was missing...Thursday...I always hated Thurs- wait a minute. It’s Monday? Monday morning?” Looking at his watch he jumped up. “I’ve to hurry,” he shouted. Five minutes later I was alone in our flat.  
He came back later that afternoon. Dashing into the room, he threw his wet coat on the chair, then walked over to the DVD player and put in a disc. I was watching his movements from the kitchen. I had just finished cleaning up the dishes, the cloth, which I used to dry off the water, still in my hand.  
“What are you doing?” I took a few steps.  
“I’ll prove it you...”  
Soft music started playing while Sherlock moved all of the furniture away from the middle of the room. He walked around the now empty space and then went to the DVD player again. He turned on the music, it was some lovely piano melody, and turned around to face with me.  
“John?” He said asking, reaching out his hand for me.  
“You cannot be serious.” I smiled.  
“I am. Come John!” His left hand still hung in the air, waiting for my acceptance.  
“Don’t be mad, I am not dancing with you, Sherlock...” I resisted.  
“Yes, you are. You said you can't dance and now I’m going to prove how stupid and false that statement is. Anyway, you have nothing to lose, so come...” He came two steps closer to me, his hand invitingly reached out towards me.  
I couldn’t believe I was actually doing it. I moved towards him and accepted his hand.  
“Let me be the man the first time.” He smiled at me, pulling me closer.   
Looking into my eyes, he put his right on my waist, while my left moved to his shoulder. For a minute, his look met mine then his gaze went over my face, hair, lips, everything, looking at me as if he’d never seen me before. I think I blushed slightly at his glance so I started staring at his neck. He was wearing a dark blue shirt which was a strong contrast with his pale skin. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. I heard him taking a deep breath through his nose, like he’d inhaled some delicate scent, although I couldn’t smell anything special.  
I felt he was watching me, trying to catch my gaze so I looked up. A warm, soft smile greeted me, which made my stomach clench. It was weird to stand... well dance with Sherlock while we were so close, his hand holding mine gently. It was just utterly weird but I have to admit not unpleasant. On the contrary, actually.  
Then his right hand on my waist started moving. He...caressed me through my thin shirt. His fingers were stroking me almost hesitantly, so gently, like a lover’s touch. In response my fingertips brushed over his shoulder, lightly moving over the dark silk shirt. I didn’t know why I was doing it; it just felt like the right step to make. Then I remembered we were only acting. We played a dancing pair, a couple and it was playing, nothing more. His touches, his gaze were only part of his act; he was showing me how a man operates during a dance. This was a dance-lesson after all, wasn’t it?  
Sherlock was a great actor. Even with his eyes he was acting. The gray pair of eyes looked into my blue ones and I was lost in the kindness and caring they carried. I wasn’t aware of the fact that Sherlock Holmes, the great Sherlock Holmes, was capable of looking at someone like that. It was a shame this was all just a play. For a moment, I envied the person who would earn that look someday for real. The person who would make Sherlock happy and who would, in turn, be made happy by Sherlock. My heart started pounding faster and envy filled my soul as I thought that someday someone else would stand in front of Sherlock, dancing with him like I did and I didn’t understand the feeling. I didn’t understand why I felt like this...  
Looking into my eyes he placed my hand on his chest. Right over his heart. I could feel it rumble under my palm, his heartbeat was as fast as mine. But why? Why was he excited? Our slow movements, stepping from millimeter to millimeter wasn’t exhausting at all. Slowly, I realized why I was anxious and fervent at the same time, why my heart was so keen on jumping out of my chest, why my mouth had gone dry but I couldn’t figure out what made my partner’s heart almost pulsate under my touch. It just made no sense.  
He didn’t let go of my hand, it remained over mine, fingers folded together. His hand was still chilled from the coldness outside but I tried to warm it up by caressing his fingers with my thumb.  
I couldn’t tear my eyes from his, I couldn’t look anywhere else just into his mesmerizing bluish-grayish eyes, which radiated so much heat it made my body burn wildly and uncontrollably as a forest-fire. I was afraid of how it affected me. His hand on my waist tensed and he pulled me closer, close enough that I felt his hot breath on my ear. My chest and waist pushed against his and for a moment I was lost in the pleasure our bodies pressed firmly together caused me. I was happy that here and now I was that person who held Sherlock and who was held by him. Then I reminded myself that this was just a play. Nothing more just acting.  
I couldn’t resist. I leaned my head against his and he didn’t move away, he rubbed his face lightly against mine as he exhaled hot air, which tickled my ear. I took a deep breath then slipped one leg between his, moving our hips as close as possible.  
I hissed when I felt his arousal pressing to my thigh.  
He knew I realized his excitement; maybe that was why he slid his hand a bit up trying to hold me still, not letting me go. Although I had absolutely no intension of going anywhere. My hand on his shoulder clenched into his shirt, the soft fabric creased under my fingers.   
I tried to calm myself down. I took a deep breath again but that just made it worse. With the air I inhaled Sherlock’s unique scent and it made me dizzy. I didn’t know if it was his cologne or just him but it was so fresh, exciting and something more, something indescribable which made me act reckless. Without thinking, I tilted my head a bit, my lips brushing lightly over Sherlock’s neck...  
And then, we heard the doorbell.   
The sharp noise broke the magic between us and we flew apart like scared birds. For a long moment, he looked into my eyes, and I know he was trying to tell me something important.  
“Told you, you can dance.” He said, his voice husky. No, this wasn’t the sentence I was looking for.  
Silence surrounded us and I realized the music stopped long ago but we hadn’t even noticed it. Looks like we were, or at least I was, too busy imagining things, which didn’t exist.


	2. Just the facts, please

We both heard Mrs. Hudson welcoming a man at the door.

“Come in my dear. Mr. Holmes is upstairs.” The landlady said, probably showing the way. I looked at Sherlock for a second; I didn’t know what to think about his previous ‘lesson’. He ran his palm over his jacket, adjusting the non-existing pleats then faced the door, waiting for the guest to enter.

The sound of the footsteps came right up to the door and then the door opened up and we finally met with the mysterious stranger. A tall, slim man walked into the room, wearing a black suit with slender white stripes, a long black coat hung over his arm.

Thick, black hair was framing his face, several furrows running through his high forehead. Lips thin, light pink colored, his chin freshly shaved, but his striking face could never be perfectly shaved. His dark brown eyes reflected intelligence and life experience.  He appeared to be a grave person but when he greeted Sherlock, his deep voice was kind, a soft smile showed up on his face for a short second.

“You must be Sherlock Holmes.” He reached his hand towards the detective, who accepted it. I was sure he had learned much more about the stranger of these few brief moments than I had but I had to wait for him to share these deductions.

“Yes.” He nodded. “And you are?”

“Neil Robertson. I’m the son of Xavier Robertson. You must have heard about my father.”

“Yes, I had heard about him.  You have my condolences. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson.”

“Dr. Watson.” He greeted me with a steady but gentle handshake then turned back to Sherlock. “Thank you Mr. Holmes, but I’m not here for your concern, I’m here because I need your help.”

“In what matter, exactly?”

“Well, as you read in the papers my father died two days ago...”

“I didn’t read it in the papers, Mr. Robertson.”

“Then how did you know it?” Our guest asked, surprise in his voice. Interesting that everyone was surprised by the fact that Sherlock knew everything about them, although they had to have heard about his abilities or they wouldn’t be asking for his help.

“Why don’t we sit down?” Sherlock waved towards the chairs. Mr. Robertson and I sat down but he stayed standing and walked over to the window. “Your clothes are a bit tight on you, you don’t wear suits regularly, that would indicate a special occasion. The way you hold yourself suggests that you’re a proud man, so you wouldn’t wear it just because you want to make a good impression on me, so it’s something else. There is a fabric handkerchief in your pocket. It’s black with white embroidery on it. They’re two letters: an X and an R, your father’s initials. Black handkerchiefs imply mourning in old families like yours, and the two letters make it clear who you’d lost. Obvious.” Sherlock explained, voice bored. He wasn’t looking at us; he was watching the empty streets.

Mr. Robertson brought the dark fabric out of his pocket and caressed it with his thumb for a moment.

“My father was a good man. He was a lawyer, you know.”

“Yes, we know. He put a few criminals I caught in prison.” Sherlock smiled slightly.

“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

“I said I didn’t read about his death in the papers. I knew him. We met a few times. But please, tell us Mr. Robertson, what do you need our help with?”

“I need you to find my father’s missing will.”

“A missing will? Shouldn’t his lawyer have a copy of his will?” I asked stunned.

“My father wrote a new will the evening he died. He called up his lawyer, Stephen Ezard, right after he had finished it and they arranged a meeting for next day, so that Stephen could look over the will and make a copy of it. Stephen and my father had been friends since they attended university together, you know.  He had always taken care of our family’s legal documents. He said that when father called him up he sounded... desperate and sad. The next morning the maid found father in his bathtub. He had committed suicide.”

“Why would he arrange a meeting for next day if he was planning to kill himself that evening?” I put the obvious question to them.

“He just wanted to make Mr. Ezard aware of the existence of the new will, I think...” I wasn’t convinced by Sherlock’s answer and his voice made me think he wasn’t either. “So, you are unable to locate this new will.”

“Exactly.  We cannot find it anywhere, although we turned the whole house upside down. We also checked every other place he could have put it: his office, his car even his little fishing house at the lake.”

“Is it possible that your father had a safe that you were unaware of?” Sherlock asked, drawing the curtain.

“Oh well, there was plenty I didn’t know about,” Mr. Robertson smiled at me because Sherlock looked like he wasn’t even listening to the man. Of course I knew he was memorizing every important details of this conversation. “But Stephen knows everything. He knows the codes and also where the keys are.” After a minute, he looked at Sherlock’s back and went on. “Father told me about you. He said you see things, which cannot be seen to any other person. Mr. Holmes, we really need your help.”

Sherlock glanced at Mr. Robertson then at me. I nodded slightly, implying my interest in the case.

“Alright Mr. Robertson, we’ll help you. But we have to speak with Mr. Ezard and we have to see your father’s house, car, and any other place in which he might have hidden the will.”

“Of course I show you anything you need but I’m afraid the meeting with Mr. Ezard will be problematic. After the funeral he’s going to fly to Pakistan, for his brother’s funeral. Poor bastard lost two important men in his life in the same week.”

“To Pakistan?” I yelled surprised.

“Yes, his brother was living there, helping refugees in a camp, or something.”

“When will be your father’s funeral take place?” Sherlock stepped behind me, his hands on my chair.

“Tomorrow at 3 o’clock. My father will be buried in our family cemetery. It’s behind the house, next to the small forest. If you would like to attend the funeral, I would be happy to send a car for you. It’s pretty hard to find the estate even if you know where it is. We would be happy to invite you to stay at the house until the case is solved. Even the nearest hotel is a few hours away, and the road conditions are terrible.”

“What do you think, my dear John, can we make a little trip to this far away place to find an important document?” He bent forward, his lips close enough to my ear that I could feel his hot breath.

“Absolutely, Sherlock.” I smiled at him. For a moment, I completely forget about the third person in the room. I remembered our dance, how close he had been to me, how good it had felt to be held in his arms. From his eyes I saw, he was thinking about the same thing. He licked his lower lip then grinned at me. At that moment, he looked exactly like a hungry tiger.

 


	3. Sleeping problems

I was up the whole night. I went to bed early, I just couldn’t stay close to Sherlock for too long. But when I lay down to have some rest, to finally calm myself down, I couldn’t get any sleep.

I tried everything, counting back from one hundred, counting forward from one (I gave it up at five hundred and thirty-nine), counting sheep that were jumping over a huge, orange fence... But when the sheep in my head ran to a man who was grey eyed and half-naked, I decided I had better try reading. But nothing worked. I was lying with closed eyes and the only thing I did was think. And thinking wasn’t really a good idea.

Because every time I closed my eyes, even when they were open, I saw him. That madman. That bastard. His eyes. His lips. Damn.

I was attracted to Sherlock. I didn’t know when it had happened but since our dance lesson it was clear to me that I wanted to kiss that man. Not just his lips. Not just kiss...

I was desperate. How could I live with this? How could I live with him, walk next to him, day after day, pretending I didn’t want to shove him against the nearest wall and tear off his clothes? Because that was exactly what I wanted.

When had this happened? I asked the question about a thousand times then I thought back. After I had come home from Afghanistan I couldn’t sleep because of the dreams I had begun having. I always saw death, blood and sadness. I saw my friends fall again, again and then again, lived the worst days of the war over and over, like a bad movie. I woke up screaming without a sound, tears burning in my eyes and I broke into pieces every damn morning.

Then Sherlock Homes appeared in my life. In that first month I didn’t dream. It was a relief. I just didn’t remember any of my dreams. Then during a case, I accidentally saw him naked from behind. He was changing his clothes after swimming in the Thames, I walked into the room, and there he was. My heart missed a beat then went on at double speed. He was beautiful. I stared at his shoulders, moonlight shining on his pale skin, his projecting shoulder blades, his slim waist, his round ass... Then he bent forward and for a brief moment, I saw myself thrusting into him.

The next morning, for the first time in a long time, I remembered my dream. I wasn’t dreaming about the war, about my lost friends or death. In this dream I’d kissed my flat mate on his lips. Then on his neck. Then on his stomach and on his long shaft. And then I made him scream using only my hands and lips. Maybe that was when my attraction started. Or maybe when he told me his name and winked at me. I’ll never know for sure.

That dream never happened again. I dreamt about Sherlock a lot of times, but not in that context. We were chasing criminals, or he was mocking me about something, the usual dreams, but we never had sex.

But this night I wanted to dream about him, a needed to dream about this madman, as he touched me, caressed me, kissed me, tasted me and thrust into me. I needed some kind of relief, anything, to make this feeling go away, to make me capable of walking, being next to him not wanting to touch him.

I turned around and shifted to my left side. Closing my eyes, I thought about him. How we had danced, so close to each other, then the memory mixed with my desires and my imagination took over. I could feel him kissing me, his hands shifting on my amnhood, I heard myself moaning wildly into his skin. Me, sitting in his lap was the last thing I saw in my fantasies before I fell asleep.

 

o.O.o

 

I woke up groggy and exhausted the next morning. At first, I didn’t know what had woken me up, yawning I turned over, onto my stomach. A familiar smell lingered in my nose, I didn’t know what it was, but the feelings it caused in me were arousing. My morning erection hardened, as I smelled this inebriating scent.

Still half asleep, my fingers gripped onto my pillow, while for a moment I enjoyed the minor heat of the rising sun on my bare back. My hips bucked slightly forward, rubbing my hard member against the bed, while recalling my dream, which was almost enough to lead me to satisfaction. My slow, lazy movements lasted only for a couple of seconds, when my eyes shot open from the pleasure I felt.

That was the moment when I saw his grey eyes close to me.

“Sherlock!” I yelled at him terrified. Half because he scared the shit out of me, watching me from my bedside, half because I feared what he might have seen. How obvious were my movements?

My face flushed red, as I tried not to fall out of the bed in surprise. His grey eyes observed me, thank God he could only see my horrified expression not the other, more embarrassing parts of me.

“Morning,” he said. He was crouching next to the bed. “It’s time to wake up John. The car for us will be here in an hour.” His voice was a bit husky as if he hadn’t been awake for long himself. I got harder at his words although they carried nothing arousing in their meaning.

“Thank you, Sherlock. You just managed to precede my alarm by about five minutes.”

“I’m sorry,” he said standing up. “I know how much more you could do in five more minutes...”

I blushed again deeply. Maybe he was just being ironic, but in that situation, I didn’t take it as irony. The thought that he might watch me while I eased my morning needs felt incredibly wrong, but still, at the same time I felt a twitch in my lower side and I had to take a deep breath not to groan while he was still in the room, although heading towards the door.

When I heard the door close behind him, I collapsed on the bed. I will never be able to predict the acts of this lunatic...

 

o.O.o

 

I had gotten myself ready by the time the huge black Chrysler stopped in front of our house.

I rushed after Sherlock; we both carried a small bag, containing a few articles of clothing for the next couple of days. The driver took the bags and threw them in the back of the car while Sherlock and I climbed into the backseat.

“You look tired.” Sherlock looked at me.

“I didn’t really get enough time to sleep last night.” I had to suppress a yawn.

“You might as well sleep sir; it will be several hours before we arrive.” The driver, named Armand, suggested with a little smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You should listen to him,” Sherlock spoke up as well, “There will not be any benefit to keeping you close if you are exhausted and can't concentrate.” He smiled, patting my knee.

“Thanks Sherlock...” I answered sarcastically, although I had already closed my eyes and tilted my head to a more comfortable sleeping position. The nice warmness in the car, its light swinging and the closeness of Sherlock, made me fall asleep surprisingly quickly...

 

“We’ve arrived.” I heard his light whisper, feeling fingers sliding over and over my hair. Opening my eyes, I realized that I had ended up sleeping on Sherlock’s shoulder. I moved away quickly, already missing the caring fingers. Why did he always have to do that? I know it didn’t mean anything to him, but to me... Those little intentional touches were all the private and gentle touches I could hope for, and knowing he wasn’t even doing it consciously, felt much more painful.


	4. Surprise at the funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if anyone is still reading this... But here's the next chapter for you. Still not smutty, though that part comes soon. I'm currently working on my HP/SS stories but will sooner or later finish this as well :D Hopefully sooner :D
> 
> Have fun!

As I looked out of the tinted window next to me, I couldn't see anything else just trees. We were moving slowly probably on tiny rocks, as far as I could tell by the sound of the tires beneath us. Then Armand parked the car and we climbed out.

The view in front of me took away my breath.

We stood in front of the house, only a few meters away from the stairs. The house was old, really old, most likely from the 19th century. Once it might have belonged to an English aristocrat. As I stood in front of it, I felt like traveling back hundred years. I almost expected horses, and a carriage instead of the still quietly purring Chrysler.

I looked at Sherlock, curious if he admired the house as much as I did, but to my surprise he wasn't looking at it, but me.

"You like it?" He asked raising an eyebrow as our glance met.

"Of course! It's beautiful!" I cried.

"If I knew you find pleasure in great, old houses like this, I'd have already taken you to my brother's estate. It's in the country like this, surrounded by a huge lake and an even bigger forest. You feel like you'd be in the middle of nowhere, it's quite the perfect place for contemplation. Mycroft always tells me to go there but, so far, I didn't get the reason why I should. Maybe we could take a visit someday if you like. It's rather pleasant at winters, lying in front of the warm fireplace on the soft tiger rug…" Not even waiting for my answer he walked towards the entrance.

I swear all the pictures in my head were entirely _unintentional_ effects of his last sentence. Sherlock, lying on a tiger rug with me on top of him, holding him down by his hands, kissing his neck while we both were half naked was exactly that sort of thing I needed really hard _not_ to think of. Not now, not even later.

Before he could even reach the first stair, the door opened up and Neil Robertson showed up behind it. He run to us, and the next moment he was holding my hand.

"Welcome, gentlemen!" He greeted us, turning then towards Sherlock, shaking his hand as well before looking at Armand.

"Give me the bags, I take care of them from here. Thank you Armand, you did a great job again. We expected you a bit later. I heard on the radio that there was an accident in the road?" His voice questioning as he looked at me, probably because I stood the closest to him.

I couldn't comment this as I slept through the whole journey, fortunately I didn't even need to as Armand spoke up before my silence could be noticed.

"Yes, there was. But luckily, we heard about it too, and I was able to drive around it in a sideway before we got stuck in the jam. It was a little bumpy but the gentlemen didn't mind it, right?" Armand smiled at me. His glance told me he remembered that I was sleeping the whole way and also in what position. Although, maybe the last part was only my paranoia.

I nodded, blushing. How deep did I sleep that I didn't notice anything about this?

I heard Sherlock giggle lightly on the other side of the car. I shot a killing look at him, thank God, it made him shut up.

"It's said, the road became so congested that if you stuck there you wouldn't even made it to the funeral." Mr Robertson said shaking his head.

"Do you know, what exactly happened?" Sherlock asked, leaning to the car.

"Yes, they said the bridge fell down, however they don't know how it had happened. It was an old bridge, it was built when my father was a young boy, but it was only renovated last year, or maybe a year before, right Armand?" Neil looked at the young driver questioning.

"Exactly two years before, sir. I remember we worried ourselves to death about the reopening of the bridge. My wife and me, we expected the birth of our first son at that time, and the other bridge, the one we came through now, is too far away from my house and even from the hospital. But we were lucky, they'd finished the renewing a week before my son was born."

"Darling, why are you making our guests wait in the cold outside, instead of inviting them in?" A gentle voice came from the door.

"Charlotte, honey, you know you shouldn't be outside in this weather." Neil looked at the woman standing in the door, concern on his face.

I looked at her too, and I realized why Neil was so worried about. Her hand rested on her stomach, caressing it lightly. It wasn't visible yet but I was sure, she was pregnant. She was a beautiful, young lady. Long, blonde curls framed her face, her blue eyes shined happily as the brightest summer sky.

"However, she's right. Gentlemen, please come in." He waved towards the open door. "Armand, see you at the funeral. Give my best wishes to Gina and Martin.

"I will," our driver smiled before saying goodbye to us and getting in the car.

"Charlotte, these are the gentlemen I was talking to you about; Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson.

Charlotte welcomed us nicely. "I prepared your rooms upstairs; Neil will show them to you. But I'm afraid Stephen is not here yet. Hope he didn't stuck in the jam at the bridge…." She sighed.

Mr Robertson walked us to our rooms; they were next to each other. He said this would be more comfortable if "we seek out for the other's company". How convenient. I really hope I wouldn't do anything reckless because of the closeness of the rooms.

I dropped my bag on my bed, looking around. The room was nice and pretty big. I sat on the little bed, next to it, there stood a nightstand, with a digital clock and a lamp on it, then came a huge window, with an armchair below it. At the wall, opposite to the bed, was an antique wardrobe, looking like the one C. S. Lewis might had in mind when he wrote the Chronicles of Narnia.

A moment later that thought rushed through my mind I heard a quite click and I could swear it came exactly from the wardrobe. I stood up and sneaked closer to the dark wood-doors. My hand was already on the door handle when the doors swung open and I almost fainted. Then I saw Sherlock's smiling face.

"Look John, we have a secret door." I didn't dare ask him what on earth he was doing in the wardrobe when he found out about the secret door. I was more concerned keeping my rambling heart in my chest.

"Are you ready?" He asked climbing out. "Mr Robertson said he'd like to show us the whole house."

o.O.o

The tour was quite interesting. Mr Robertson told us about the house, not just about its history but also some architectural details. He mentioned that after this is a very old house, we shouldn't be surprised to find some hidden doors or even some secret rooms. He said he believed that even his father didn't know all the secrets this house held.

I was fascinated by the huge paintings on the walls. Most of them were about the old family, or the estate and its surroundings but I found a few one even about horses or dogs. There was this one in particular, an adorable Jack Russell terrier, in front of which, Sherlock stopped for a moment.

"If I will ever have a dog, which most likely I won't, it will be a Jack Russell. Or a bulldog." He stated, studying the painted animal.

"I never knew you wanted a dog!" I looked at him surprised.

"I didn't. I'm just saying _if_ I'll ever have one…"

"What would you call it?"

Without any hesitation, he answered grinning: "Lestrade. However, I might offend the dog whit that name."

"And of course you are concerned about offending the _dog_." I laughed.

"Of course I am." He replied cherish, walking already towards Neil.

"And finally," Mr Robertson went on when we reached him, "here is the library." He opened the two-winged door with a dramatic swipe.

"Close your mouth, John." Sherlock smiled at me before stepping in the huge room.

I murmured a quiet 'shut up' to him even though he was right. My mouth must had fell open because of the beautiful room in front of me.

I stood in the middle and looked all over the place. All around me, there were books. Many books, hundreds, maybe even a thousand of them, were lying on the gigantic shelves; right in front of me, several windows letting in the bright light. At that moment I actually felt like I'd be in the 19th century. It was just fascinating.

"This is also you're father's working room, right Mr Robertson?" Sherlock walked to a desk with papers and a computer on it.

"Yes, yes it is. Behind you, yes the painting of the woman, that is one of my father's hidden safe."

Sherlock removed the painting and behind it he indeed found a safe. "Interesting…" He murmured then louder, he asked Mr Robertson, "Can we look inside?"

"I'm afraid no. Not yet. When Stephen arrives, he's going to give you all the codes and keys he knew about, until then, I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Oh… alright then."

I was walking around the room, reading the titles of the books surrounding me. It was an incredible collection, I knew even though I'm not a collector. First editions of Shakespeare, Kant and Coleridge even some Nietzsche and other great writer and philosophers from the 17th and 19th century.

Went I reached Sherlock, he was holding a book in his hand. When he noticed that I'm next to him, he started reading from the volume he was holding.

" ' _To see the world in a grain of sand, And heaven in a wild flower…_ '"

"'… _Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour._ ' William Blake." I finished the poem. He closed the book and gave it to me. It was a first edition too. Amazing.

"Very good, John. Very good." He smiled gently.

"Thank you, Sherlock. Literature was my second favourite subject at school. For a long time, I wanted to be a writer, you know…" He gave me an incredulous look. I nodded, then my eyes went back reading other lines in the book.

We spend a few more minutes in the library, before Neil said that he has to go now, and get ready for the funeral. I looked at the clock and realized we only had an hour before the ceremony and Stephen Ezard was still nowhere.

We also returned to our rooms, to be precise, to my room. Sherlock lied down on my bed, his hands like he'd be praying. He didn't say a word, nor did I, as I was standing in front of the huge window, looking out and absorbing the wonderful scenery before me. Lot of green highlighted and contrasted as the strong sunrays broke their way through the heavy clouds; it was just beautiful.

"Fascinating." Came from next to me.

I looked at Sherlock and I saw he was looking at me, observing me. I could feel redness creeping up on my cheeks.

"What?" I asked, watching again the graveyard far away.

"You." Was his the short answer, and when I look at him I saw his eyebrows frowning slightly.

I know the blushing deepened, so I didn't dare hold my gaze at him for long.

"We should start getting ready for the ceremony. It is time for you to go back to your room and get changed."

I couldn't repress a smile.

"I _am_ in my room, Sherlock."

"Oh…" He looked around. "That is correct. Sorry." He said, jumping out from my bed, vanishing behind the secret door of the wardrobe. I followed his moves as he left the room. I couldn't do otherwise.

Why was I so drown into him? Why did I need his company as badly as oxygen? Why did I feel every time when he looked at me as if there wasn't any more breathable air in the room?

I doubted I will ever get answers for my questions, so I just gave up and went to have a shower.

The bathroom was right next to my room and as all the other places in the house, was also beautiful. Light blue and white colours ruled the whole room; it was furnished perfectly, neatly. My thrown away clothes ruined this perfectly calm interior, like Sherlock ruined my perfectly organized and calm life. Just by being a part of it.

When I stepped out from the shower, several vapour clouds streamed around me. Thanks god, I put a towel around my waist before going back to my room, because as I opened the door I found myself face to face with the man I thought of during my shower.

"Phone. I left my phone here." He said, waving with the mentioned equipment.

"Alright," I reacted calmly.

For a second he didn't move. He was watching me, his gaze wandering on the water droplets streaming on my chest, then he suddenly turned around and left my room without a word.

Weird.

o.O.o

Several people came to Xavier Robertson's funeral, though I think it was less than I expected. When I looked around, I could see Neil and his wife talking with a woman and a man, most likely his relatives. Armand also appeared but all the other faces were unknown to me.

Unfortunately, we still didn't have any information about Stephen Ezard's whereabouts and I could tell Sherlock was getting a bit nervous about this course of action. I doubted it was because he needed the keys, he was an experienced burglar, I was sure he could break into those vaults without any problem. However if we didn't manage to meet with Mr Ezard, there was a chance we do not find all the secret hiding spaces, where Sherlock might find clues about the will. Mr Robertson did know some of his father's hidden safes, though not all of them. Moreover, we couldn't be sure about what mechanism would be triggered by forcefully entering a safe. Therefor we did need the lawyer.

We were gathering in front of the little chapel Mr Robertson's grave will be placed in. Sherlock was impatiently standing next to me, his always observing eyes wandering from person to person. He was wearing his long coat, its collar turned up like always and this time it must have been because of the chilly weather as I myself could feel my ears getting frostbit.

I shifted awkwardly as I didn't find wearing a suit too comfortable. However as Sherlock remarked upon arriving in my room after changing, it did look good on me.

"That must be Robertson's sister next to him, but who might be the other man, I wonder." Sherlock spoke up quietly next to me.

"Husband maybe?"

"No, her husband is that tall man, talking to Armand." Sherlock nodded towards them with his head. "The one with the goatee. Must be a construction worker, judging by his hands and the paint marks behind his ears." I looked at the two men standing right from us, speaking quietly. The man did seem to have the built to be able to work at a building site, though I could never tell if he really did, specially not just by his hands.

"Brother?" I asked.

"Obviously not, he's- oh…" He stopped abruptly. "Why don't we rather introduce ourselves?" And with that Sherlock was already walking towards Robertson and his company.

As always, Neil welcomed us with a warm smile.

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, let me introduce you to my younger sister, Nina and my little brother, Nathan." He said as we shook hands with his siblings. Nina's handshake was quiet strong to a woman however Nathan's was gentle and soft. His eyes met my gaze only for a few moments then he rather looked at the ground.

"My sincere condolences." I said with grief in my voice, and Sherlock nodded next to me. "I hope we can help to find your father's will."

"Thank you Dr Watson," Nina answered, "I still don't understand how this could have happened." She said, and a lock from her long, curly black hair fall to her beautiful face as she shook her head in disbelief.

"Well," Sherlock gave her a bright grin, "That is exactly what we came here for to find out."

"Is that your husband?" I asked the woman, because Sherlock's remark seemed a bit too cheerful. "Who is talking to Armand right now."

"Oh yes, that's him, my Christopher." When she said his name, he looked up right to her as if he heard her calling. Nina motioned to him to come to us, and the next moment our circle widened and I was once again shaking hand with a man, named Christopher Carlton.

"These are the gentlemen…," Gina started but Mr Carlton cut in.

"… who came to investigate about your father's will. Yes, Armand already mentioned you, Mr Homes." He smiled at Sherlock. "Will you be staying with us?" He asked towards me.

"Yes we will, Mr Robertson nicely offered us two rooms during the investigation."

"Are you also living here, Mr Carlton?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly.

"Oh yes, Nina and I moved in about a few month ago. She wanted to be closer to his father, and of course to Charlotte and Xavier said this house is big enough for all of us, didn't he darling." he looked at his wife and drove his arm around her. " _The more the merrier_. Wasn't he saying this all the time?" He laughed.

Nina nodded and smiled, morosely though, tears filling her eyes. "I'm sorry." She sobbed, sweeping the tears from her blushed face with a handkerchief. "I just miss him so much…" she tried to organize herself. "By the way, how did you know, Mr Watson, that Christ was my husband?" She raised her red eyes at me.

"I didn't," I answered honestly. "It was Sherlock, he told me."

"How did you know Mr Holmes?" Neil asked quickly, giving time to her sister to put herself together a bit.

"Well it was simple, really. I saw a man and a woman arrive here together. Before the man went to speak with Armand, he hugged her. Could have implied sibling or cousin relation, but they are nothing alike, then the man kissed the woman on her forehead, that suggests either father-daughter or romantic relationship, friends and further relatives don't usually give kisses like that. He is too young to be her father, so it's a romantic relationship then. Couldn't be lovers, to many people around. How did I know husband and not boyfriend or fiancé? Their rings. _Matching_ rings." Sherlock reached out and took Nina's hand. "Yellow gold, 20 carat, with a thin line of white gold in the middle. Because of its 5 millimetre wideness, it's perfect for engravings what I suspect we will find in this as well. If you don't mind," Sherlock shined a nice smile on Nina, who was watching him in awe and he pulled her ring down from her finger. "There it is, ' _yours forever'_. I imagine it's the same on yours, Mr Carlton."

"Yes, yes it is. This was brilliant Mr Holmes."

"As I said, simple."

"You're a proper genius," Armand added amazed as well.

"I merely observe." Sherlock beamed. "The same way as observed that the youngest Robertson doesn't live here with you.

Nathan, who was silently looking at the ground so far, looked at Sherlock with a wild expression.

"You arrived on a motorbike today, Honda CBF600, with a backpack what contained clothes for about 3 or 4 days, am I correct?"

"Yeah. I don't live here, my work is in London, and I own a flat there. But I visit often." He said shyly.

Suddenly Mr Carlton spoke up.

"Oh Neil, I've been wanting to ask you this, is there any news from Mr Ezard, he should be here now, shouldn't he? I hope the poor fellow didn't get stuck at the bridge."

A deep voice sounded up behind us.

"Uh, yes I did. Yes I did. How unfortunate." A man said, striding fast towards us. Neil stepped forward to great him.

"Stephen, my dear friend, thanks god! You arrived just in time."

"I am terribly sorry Neil. I've been delayed, but luckily the old Masters had a boat and he still owned me a favour since I helped him with that small territorial dispute he had last winter. He brought me to the other side of the river, and also gave me a lift, god bless the good fellow. It's almost 3 o'clock. Are we waiting for someone else?

Neil looked around then shook his head, "I think everyone is here, we expected."

"Then why don't we speak after the ceremony. You know how much your father hated to be late."

o.O.o

During the ceremony we attempted to stand behind the small crowd as Sherlock wanted to avoid all the _'miserably crying people'_ as he so nicely put it. I could see he was impatient; his fingers were drumming on his folded arms, his eyes roaming on our environment.

To my surprise this was an open casket funeral. Sherlock informed me that this was still a tradition in old families like this. He also told me that most likely Xavier Robertson's coffin won't be put under ground yet, it will be stored for one month in the chapel we stood in front of. When I asked stunned why on earth would someone do that, he simply shrugged and said, so that people, who couldn't attend the funeral could also say their farewell to him. I must have looked horrified because he added, that the tomb is presumably stored carefully, on precise temperature and humidity and so that the putrefaction won't start immediately.

"So they are basically mummifying their father." I said shocked.

"No." Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "The mummification process is different. You never pay attention to the details." He sighed and my eyes widened in annoyance for a second. "When a body is mummified, first it is embalmed, then the brain and the internal organs are removed, the skin dried out and then carefully wrapped though the process can vary according to customs in the regions. So no, this is not mummifying merely… _storing_."

I rose my head quickly and gave him an incredulous look.

"Oh just shut up, Sherlock." I whispered. The crowed seemed to lessen around us. People were walking to the tomb to take a last glance at Xavier Robertson.

"What did I say wrong now?" Sherlock hissed uncomprehending.

"Just… just shut up."

I didn't plan to look at Xavier Robertson's body before, but suddenly I thought that I have to see him, see the man, whose will we wanted to find. I pitied him for committing suicide and I just couldn't understand why would someone kill themselves when they had a great family, didn't have financial problems not even any troubles at work.

So I walked up to the body as well, and gazed down on the old man. He must have been over 60 I concluded by examining his wrinkled face and short grey hair. As a medical man I knew that his face couldn't appear this alive, but he actually seemed to be only sleeping.

He was wearing an elegant black suit with a black silk tie. A white golden, vintage tie pin was attached to the fabric, a fox head, with two little diamonds as the eyes of the animal.

My gaze shifted further down on the motionless body. His hands were laid on his stomach, while holding a small bouquet of snow-white tulips. I stared at his folded hands and for a second the breeze of decay flapped me. I did not know this person in front of me, we never met and now I will never have the chance to talk to him.

It wasn't death what affected me, more like the _passing_ itself. Who knows what this man wanted to do before he died. Though Xavier ended his life himself, death can come to us anytime, being a soldier taught me that long ago.

Questions like what am I doing with my life filled my head and I found myself looking at Sherlock, standing far away from me. Will we be together in the rest of our life? Somehow I couldn't imagine life without Sherlock, but I also knew that I have to forget my feelings for him if I ever want to have a proper family.

Suddenly I realized, as if my brain finally understood what my eyes saw, that something was wrong with the body. I examined the skin one more time and this time I let my instincts and medical knowledge kick in.

The fingers.

"Oh god…" I murmured already rushing through the crowd.

"Sherlock, come! You have to see this." I said, grabbing his hand and puling him towards the corpus. And he followed me without any hesitation.

People were looking at us but I didn't care.

"Look at the fingers," I told him, "they're-"

"…Blue." He smiled evilly.

With a grin on his face he spun around.

"Mr Robertson!" He called towards Neil. "This ceremony must stop."

Neil came towards us and the crowd split in front of him.

"All do respect Mr Holmes, but this is not appropriate. This is my father's funeral and-"

But Sherlock cut in his sentence as he walked up to him.

"Your father didn't commit suicide, Mr Robertson." Sherlock said calculating, highlighting every word as he looked the man dead in the eyes. "Your father was _murdered_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay that's for today! What do you think? Worth writing more for this? Anyone at all interested in this story? :D

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked the prologue and please let me know somehow if you're interested in the next chapter ;)


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